


What Counts as Home

by badgerling



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: Alternate Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-19
Updated: 2012-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:22:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badgerling/pseuds/badgerling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor and Michael make it to Cuba. Things go downhill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Counts as Home

**Author's Note:**

> This goes AU during "Lesser Evil" before Victor gets shot. Written for a comment_fic prompt: "Burn Notice, Michael/Victor, Victor lives"

Michael can't even call home because he knows the phones are tapped. That's the one thing about this arrangement that bothers him. He can't make sure his people are okay. He can only assume that nothing's come down on Sam or Fi, that if anyone came after his mother or brother, then Sam would take care of it because that's what Sam did, but it's the not knowing, and not being able to check, that bothers him that most.

It's the reason he spends an hour each evening on the beach, in the dusky twilight, holding a satellite phone and staring north. Vaguely in the direction of Miami, but only vaguely.

Because he and Victor, they've had this argument before. Or, rather, Michael has had this argument before, and Victor has just stared at him, not saying a word, daring him to leave, daring him to stay, both at the same time. Michael has always sighed and nodded, giving in to that silent argument. He knows he can't call, and he knows he can't go home again.

But he's not sure he can stay, not any longer. Not, and not drive himself crazy with worry, boredom, and unfilled promises and obligations.

"We can't stay here any more. We're running risks just staying in one place, you know that," Michael says, not taking his eyes off the horizon. He can feel Victor standing behind him in the doorway of the house that's really just a one-room shack on an out of the way beach. Victor doesn't say anything, and like always, it's Michael who breaks first, turning to look at the man who had become his only friend and lover.

Victor's staring at the horizon, though, but when Michael takes a step forward, Victor's eyes suddenly snap to him. They're as cold and as distant as Michael always assumed they were behind those dark sunglasses the first day they met. Michael stops short, knowing just how dangerous Victor is when he gets that look in his eyes. Knows just how close he is to crossing some invisible line when Victor smiles, and it's more a baring of teeth than any actual warm expression.

"No. What you mean to say is that _you_ can't stay here anymore," Victor says. Each word was crisp, precise, virtually harmless, yet Michael still feels like he was inches away from dying bloody. Victor's eyes go back to the dark horizon, staring north, vaguely in the direction of Miami, and Michael doesn't speak, watching Victor, knowing that he'll either come to a decision or attack or possibly both. He simply shifts his weight, preparing himself for an attack that never actually comes.

Victor snorts and shakes his head. "Do what you gotta do, tiger. No one's holding a gun to your head. Today." The words sound friendly, and welcoming, and understanding, but Victor's eyes remain the same. Victor has never been friendly, never welcoming, and certainly never understanding, and now is no different. Michael steps forward, covering the rest of the distance between them, and he gets close enough to feel Victor's body heat, to feel the other man's heartbeat, or at least, imagine he can.

"You're acting like a child," Michael says, evenly, his voice calm and steady, two things he doesn't feel, but he doesn't let that show on his face, not even when Victor's eyes find his again. Victor clenches his jaw, the muscle ticking with the movement, and Michael focuses on that and not the dangerous way Victor's eyes darken. Michael knows he's standing too close, considering what he just said, but he stays where he is. There's a defiant look on his face, too, because he wants Victor to react to that.

To react to anything Michael has said. It had never been easy to goad Victor into anything, not even before the showdown in the marina and the trip to Cuba that had been made mostly in silence.

"You're the one who's homesick, Mike," victor says, clipping off Michael's name like that in and of itself is a threat.

"They're family, _Vic_ ," Michael replies because turnabout was fair play and death threats were foreplay, and this was a dance they'd done before. He shifts his weight, moving ever so slightly closer to Victor. "You remember what that's like." Michael had crossed that invisible line seconds ago, but before Michael can even begin to process the thoughts of 'dangerous ground' and 'tread softly', Victor moves.

Michael always underestimates Victor's speed. He shouldn't. He's seen the man scale rooftops and avoid bombs, but it always catches him off-guard when he suddenly finds himself pushed so hard against the door frame that the edge of it pressing against his back knocks the wind out of him. Victor's forearm is pressed against his neck, lifting enough to cut off anything else Michael might be planning to say but not enough to kill him.

Michael knows that it would only take a little more pressure to cut off his air completely, and a little more than that to snap his neck. Victor has him pinned to the doorway, larger body that's all muscle mass holding him in place, and Victor lifts his arm against Michael's neck slightly, moving Michael up enough that he can't plant his feet firmly against the ground and get any kind of leverage.

"There are certain topics that are off-limits, sport. You know that," Victor says, his voice low, cold, and even. These are the moments when Michael remembers that Victor is a wild card, half fire, burning out fast and hard and as loudly as possible, and half ice, seeping in and killing him slowly. Talking about his family, that's the one time Victor gets like this.

Michael wants to reply. Not to apologize, no, not to explain, but to tell Victor that he knows. He understands, but that arm as his throat presses in again, and Michael can barely breathe. Victor holds him there, barely moving, only the muscles in his arm tensing as Victor clenches and uncleches his fist. Michael keeps his eyes on Victor's, and this time, it's Victor who breaks first.

He lets Michael go, stepping away. He stands, half in the doorway, half out and he stares at Michael in silence for a moment. "There's a boat in the marina, heading north at midnight. Be on it." Michael stops rubbing at his neck to stare at Victor because those words sound very, very final, and Victor gives him a slight lift of his eyebrows before heading inside the shack.

Michael doesn't move at first. He stares at the now empty doorway, the light that usually seems warm but now, mostly, is just light. Empty, because Victor's obviously not waiting for Michael to come back inside. Victor never waits, he just _expects_ , and some part of Michael should be frustrated that. He's not a trained animal. There is no Pavlovian response to violence and ultimatums.

Really.

Honest.

Michael sighs, tearing his gaze from the door and turning it back across the water. North, always north. He doesn't stay outside the full hour this time. He steps away from the door, leaving the satellite phone on the railing of what they call a porch, and when he actually steps into the bright light from inside their house, he finds Victor sitting, Indian-style, on the bed.

Michael frowns at him, but doesn't speak, not at first. Not until he leans forward, his face inches from Victor's, and only then does he say, "Dick."

Victor just grins, and the expression doesn't reach his eyes, but he stills grabs Michael's collar and pulls him down onto the bed.  


**Author's Note:**

> USA owns them.


End file.
